Atlantic Breath

In an Icelandic July the sun barely sets. It slips below the horizon close to midnight, drags itself along just beneath it, and returns a couple of hours later — so the light never fully dies, it just holds its breath.

This was taken at 23:18 on a black volcanic shore on Iceland's west coast. The tide was retreating, leaving a film of water on the sand that recorded every colour the sky still owned: ember-orange at the horizon, slate blue in the clouds, and the long silver line of a wave that had just let go of the land.

Of the four works in the debut collection this is the darkest and the most physical — you can almost hear it. It rewards a large format and a dim room.